


Embers

by Independence1776



Series: RAFA 'verse [6]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, Maglor in history
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-26
Updated: 2014-01-26
Packaged: 2018-01-10 03:20:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1154160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Independence1776/pseuds/Independence1776
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Maglor's journey through the Ages. Linked ficlets leading directly into <em>Rise Again From Ashes</em>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Embers

**Author's Note:**

> Many, _many_ thanks to Elleth for the beta. You made this story shine.

The dust swirled around my feet, thrown into the air with every step of my boots. But I was far from the only one doing so-- thousands of people were as well, fleeing a country burning from raiders' torches. When I had arrived in a place where Elves were only stories, just centuries after Morgoth's defeat, I had expected to be anything but ignored. Yet I was. I was still hidden now, covered in dirt from the road.  
  
I looked ahead, at the horizon, catching a glimpse of an eagle as it dove into the tall grass. Grasslands undulated in all directions, broken by the few herd animals still alive and by the people struggling to survive on the road. The train of people stretched beyond my sight, and I knew it did the same behind me. The lucky ones had wagons, and the weapons to reinforce their ownership. The rest, myself included, had only what we could carry. I was lucky to have a knife on my belt, but it was one I had since Beleriand, and I would not part with it. Everything else, including the small wooden harp that was my second-most valuable possession-- music was always welcome-- was in my pack. It was more than some had.  
  
I studied the Men ahead of me, watching exhausted children stumble after their parents, young couples fighting, elders complaining. They wore garments of rich materials, sackcloth, and everything in between. But none of it mattered-- town elder or merchant, shaman, or peasant-- all were homeless refugees now. More than half would die before we reached any sort of destination. The raiders could catch up if they chose, scattering and killing us. Disease would become widespread. Dehydration and hypothermia would take their toll. And through it all, I would survive. Survive by doing as I always had: hiding in mortal lands, where no Elves had ever traveled. Survive on Man's road, alone.  


* * * * *

  
  
I clambered over the wooden wreckage of my small house, looking for the bits and pieces of the life I had lived here. I hadn't known that storms could come from the Sea with such ferocity, or that water could surge so high. I had been hunting farther inland, so I didn't deplete the sources around me. That trip had saved my life, for the waters that had destroyed my house would have drowned me. Since I had no desire to face Mandos…  
  
I shook my head and straightened up, looking at the changed and debris-strewn coast. It was time for me to move on once again. There was no point in rebuilding-- I did not know when or if another such storm would come. No, I would gather what I could and make a life for myself elsewhere. Middle-earth was a large world; there were other places to live.  


* * * * *

  
  
I had settled in Harad over a decade ago, in a city formed around an oasis and thus on one of the trade routes through the desert. People from many nations-- even Gondor on occasion-- passed through, and my pale skin, while far from ordinary, wasn't remarkable. I taught music lessons, took some, and rarely was called upon to translate Sindarin. I listened to the news the caravans brought, learning a bit of history from those who would talk to me. I'd even heard that Elrond became one of Gil-Galad's aides. He'd made a good life for himself, even with the stigma his upbringing would have brought.  
  
I'd settled at my usual table near the entrance, taking a break from playing for the moment, when the door crashed open and the head of the newest merchant train came into the tavern. Not an unusual occurrence, but the argument was.  
  
“I am _never_ going near Mordor again. The Lord of Mordor is back. That fire-mountain is erupting again.”  
  
I stared at him. Sauron, returned? That was, well, obviously not impossible. I drained my tankard and interrupted the two men. “What has he done?”  
  
The caravan master looked at me. “He's preparing for war-- the orcs are becoming more organized, and more slaves have been bought for the farms near the Sea of Nurnen. I wouldn't doubt he's approached the tribes and asked for warriors. I bet he's going to attack those Northmen and finally wipe them from existence.”  
  
Northmen. Gondorians. Likely Elves, too. “Do they know?”  
  
“'Course they know, fool. They're right on his doorstep.” He peered at me. “You one of them?”  
  
I shook my head. “I'm not from Gondor. But the Lord of Mordor has been an enemy of mine for a very long time.”  
  
He laughed. “You're an Elf! Go run to Mordor, darling, and try to kill him. Let's see how well that works for you.”  
  
I peered down at my empty tankard, half-tempted to order another one. I couldn't get drunk yet, though. I had to play. I finally said, “I have no desire for a suicide mission. No, I will do the sensible thing and run.”  
  
“Can't run North. He'll catch ya.”  
  
“Which is why I think I'll head East again.”  
  
The caravan master laughed again and turned away from me. The noise in the tavern soon drowned him out, but the topic of conversation had drifted from a variety of topics to that unfortunate news. Some were contemplating leaving while others were wondering how it would positively affect trade. After all, armies need supplies. I wasn't surprised people were being opportunistic; it’s human nature. I shook my head, pushing the thoughts of everything to the back of my mind, and made my way to the niche where I'd sit while drumming a rhythm for the dancing woman. As soon as feasible, I was leaving. If word reached Sauron that an Elf lived here…   


* * * * *

  
  
I stared at the herds of warhorses and then glanced back at the emperor. “You think you can win?”  
  
He sniffed. “We have been fighting against the one you call Sauron for longer than the countries by the sea existed. I did not realize you believed their propaganda.”  
  
“I don't. I just know how powerful his--”  
  
“And you have received my thanks for the intelligence. But think about it: how have those nations survived for so long? Sauron fights the army on his border and makes them think they are alone. Once they are defeated, he will turn his attention eastward. There is an army massing on our border in preparation for that moment. We will take the element of surprise and drive them to the west, north of the Sea of Rhûn. The people who live there will help us defeat them, so they will bother neither of our peoples.” He smirked. “They will never know of us. I have no desire to treat with rulers who believe that everyone who is not of their background worships the Dark. But our enemy will be caught in a pincer movement nonetheless.”  
  
He was right, though it took longer than he thought. The emperor was not impressed. He did keep to his word, never revealing his actions and only dealing with those enemies who fled eastward. I stayed in his court for another two years, only leaving because rumors of an approaching envoy from the western countries slipped through the palace. While I knew the emperor would refuse to treat with them, I had no desire to chance recognition.  


* * * * *

  
  
After the post-dinner chores were complete, the family I was sheltering with-- both from the storm and until the harvest was complete-- gathered around the fireplace. The grandfather cleared his throat, and began speaking. “A long time ago, there was a great and powerful enemy, so terrible few dared to speak his name. He ruled the world, and Gondor was the sole kingdom left to oppose his rule. The Elves hid themselves away and fled West. But there were a few who dared to stand openly against the Dark Lord. But the bravest of them, a woman named Arwen, dared to marry King Aragorn.”  
  
“Arwen… She's who I'm named after, right?” the little girl said.  
  
Her mother sat down next to her, putting a dress she was hemming in her lap. “Yes, darling. Just like your brother is named for King Faysal. Now let your grandfather tell the story. Our guest hasn't heard it before.”  
  
The little girl looked at me, amazed. “Why not?”  
  
I softly answered, “I wasn't born here in Gondor. We don't have this story where I'm from.”  
  
“Oh.” A pensive expression crossed her face. “What sorts of legends do you have?”  
  
“I'll tell you one of them, after Grandfather is done.”  
  
She nodded and turned back to face him. Grandfather picked up the thread of his tale. “It was a long and terrible fight, because Aragorn could not be crowned king until the Dark Lord was defeated. He had spent his youth wandering the world, learning to defeat his great enemy. But he ever kept Arwen in his thoughts, for he loved her. Arwen spent her time learning about mortal ways, for she was an Elven princess. She made a great sacrifice for him-- she gave up her immortality in order to marry him.   
  
“When it came time to defeat the Dark Lord, Arwen led a small band of Aragorn's allies south, and they met Aragorn's army of Gondor at the Black Gates. After a fierce struggle, their combined forces prevailed. The Dark Lord was defeated, and his dark tower torn down. Aragorn and Arwen married shortly after, and they ushered in an era of peace that lasted for hundreds of years.”  
  
“So how did they die?” Faysal said.  
  
“Of old age, together,” Grandfather answered. He glanced at me. “What did you think, Maglor?”  
  
I tilted my head. “It's an interesting story. It could even be true. There _are_ ruins in Mordor. I've seen them.” The entire family looked at me. “Like Aragorn, I've been wandering most of my life. I've seen many, many things. Ruins are the least of them.”  
  
The mother smiled. “You promised a story from your people.”  
  
I bowed my head in acknowledgment. “It is very old, and a story it truly is, not a history that has been passed down through generations. But that doesn't mean it is worthless, as even stories have truth in them.  
  
“Once, long ago, on the shores of a lake surrounded by mountains, so there were many waterfalls and streams flowing into it, the ancestors of my people awoke in the twilight before dawn. Yet my ancestors were not scared, but rejoiced in the starlight, even as the sun rose. The three couples who had woken wandered, and encountered more of my people. The couple who had awoken first gathered the twelve to be their companions. They encountered more, and the second couple gathered those fifty-four. For a third time, they encountered more, and the third couple gathered those seventy-two. That is why my people have three clans, of which the oldest is the smallest and the youngest the largest, and why we count in twelves.”  
  
“That's a strange story,” Arwen said, wrinkling her nose.  
  
“Yes, it is. People just don't appear by a lakeside, do they?”  
  
She rapidly shook her head, pigtails hitting her cheeks. The conversation turned to local matters, and I kept silent, absorbing the minor details of these people's lives. The legend of Arwen and Aragorn… So much had been lost, and yet, the core of that tale had survived. It didn't matter that details had been altered over time-- the knowledge of Elrond's daughter and Elros' many-times-over grandson still lived.  


* * * * *

  
  
In comparison to Sumer, Egypt was hot, sandy, and miserable-- though I did have to admit the pyramids were impressive. Greece was much more pleasant, even though it occasionally reminded me far too much of Tirion. Usually, they were good memories-- of family, theater, and celebrations-- with the end result that I remained there for longer than I should have.  


* * * * *

  
  
Rome burned.  


* * * * *

  
  
After fleeing Rome and the memories the fire brought to mind, I spent several centuries wandering the East, learning from whomever would teach me. When fireworks were invented-- not simple noisemakers, but proper fireworks-- they reminded me of Olórin's disastrous experiments, and I wondered if he'd ever been successful.  


* * * * *

  
  
Having spent so much time in places where I stood out and tired of dealing with mortals, I traveled back to the West and lived as a hermit in one of the extensive forests. It was peaceful at first, away from the bustle of Men. Peaceful because there were no orcs left to threaten me, nothing of Morgoth's and Sauron's making. Only Men and their evils.  
  
But the peace turned stifling, because even the work necessary to keep myself alive-- hunting, farming, and the like-- wasn't enough to keep my mind from wandering back to what I wished I could forget, especially when so many tasks made my hand hurt worse. Even music wasn't enough to keep my thoughts from dwelling on the past.  
  
Everything I had done-- all the people I had murdered, the Oath I had foolishly sworn, the stubbornness of the Teleri, children I had orphaned, the families I had torn apart-- I could never make up for it, no matter how I wished to. (Though I still blamed Elwing for the destruction of Sirion. She knew what would happen, and had the means to prevent it. She abandoned her children just to keep the Silmaril. I never once regretted raising Elrond and Elros.) It took our near destruction for the Valar to stir out of their comfortable nest-- and even I knew it took Eärendil to bring them the news. Their obstinance and obstructions, not to mention their stupidity in ever trusting Morgoth, had led to so many deaths. Yes, the Oath and the actions resultant from it were our fault, but the Valar didn't have to remain in Valinor while innocent people were destroyed. They truly had no care for Middle-earth and those who lived here, and I would never forgive them that. I could never forgive myself, either.  
  
I left the forest I called home when Men encroached. I could only live as an eccentric hermit for so long before someone accused me of witchcraft.  


* * * * *

  
  
Someone _did_ accuse me, several decades later. Escaping was neither fun nor pleasant.  


* * * * *

  
  
The shop smelled wonderful, of resin and wood, varnish a pungent undertone. Yet, this was clearly a prosperous family business, and I was here to meet the head of it. Antonio Stradivari would become famous; I could tell simply by the quality of his instruments that I had heard. Given a violin would be much easier for me to play than a harp, I would wait as long as I needed in Cremona for mine to be finished. I had the time and patience-- and nothing better to do.  


* * * * *

  
  
The American colonies were divided. So many people wanted to separate from Great Britain, while equal numbers wished to remain under the king's authority. And, as I now realized was likely in many revolutions-- even the one my father led-- other people simply did not have strong opinions. Shots had been fired, and the war commenced. There had been no choice, from the English perspective.  
  
The parallels between this fight and some of the reasons behind the exodus from Valinor were frightening. I sympathized with the colonists, and understood all sides, far better than I had when I was much, much younger. But it was easy for me to decide what to do.  
  
I was leaving the newly formed country. I would not be drawn into another war.  


* * * * *

  
  
I closed the journal and sipped my tea, smiling. First Darwin's publication just seven years ago, and now Mendel's. Mortals were finally noticing what I had observed for millennia. Maybe in a couple of decades, I'd be able to publish a paper or two of my own, though it would likely cause more trouble than it was worth. Better to remain a traveling violinist than be noticed officially.  
  
Still, I would enjoy watching Men increase their knowledge even if I couldn't publish. But I wasn't looking forward to the controversy caused by another clash of religion and science. I had no desire to see it again, though I knew reason would convince many in the end. At least, it had here so far. There was no telling what Valinor was like, not after what my family did.  


* * * * *

  
  
I worked on the homefront in Australia-- twice. It was a large continent, and it was easier for now to stay hidden there, though the wars complicated things. My burn scar (which was beginning to contract again as it had been a couple of centuries after the last surgery to give me more movement) thankfully prevented me from fighting. I couldn't handle a gun with that hand, and furthermore, it was starting to hurt to use in situations which required a normal range of motion. On my bad days, I knew I deserved the pain. On my good days, I merely thought it.  


* * * * *

  
  
I stared at the night sky, studded with stars, brilliant in the dark desert. By Western reckoning, it was the turn of the millennium. Yet another thousand years I had spent here, wandering, living, and learning. And I was tired of running. But there was little place for me to go where I could settle long-term, only the deserted and generally uninhabitable places. With the security systems commonplace in the modern world, I had little choice. I was becoming far too noticeable, and could not trust the authorities in any country, no matter how poor or war-torn, to notice that I didn't age. But neither was I quite ready to give up on the mortal world. There were still places I had not seen, or had not seen for centuries.   
  
The Valacirca winked above me. I turned away from it, staring south. The Valar's wrath still held-- it always would-- and I would not chance the passage across the Sea, no matter how tempting. It held only certain death.  


* * * * *

  
  
I was browsing through sheet music in my favorite music store (I'd only been in the city six months, but it was the best I had seen in years) when a tall man with long, dark hair pulled back in a loose ponytail started going through the bin next to me. I paid him little mind until he spoke to the clerk who came over to see if he needed any assistance. When he politely refused, I froze, the music I was holding sliding out of my hands and back into the bin. I slowly lifted my head. I had to make sure it wasn't my imagination that I recognized the voice.  
  
Elrond smiled at me. “Hello, Father.”  


* * * * *

  
  
  
I knocked on the door to Elrond's apartment, and waited for him to answer. It had taken me three months and multiple conversations to reach this point, to admit what I knew I really had no choice over.  
  
It was time for me to return.  
  
Not simply because I could no longer keep running from myself, but also because the mortal world was turning more inhospitable every year. The Internet, the collection and sharing of data, the difficulty of keeping private and unknown-- all contributed to an environment that was unsafe for an Elf living on Middle-earth.  
  
Mostly, though, the time had come for me to face justice, even if it was meted out by the Valar. I rather doubted they'd try me fairly, even though Elrond had reassured me numerous times that I would not be executed, but the Elven courts would be no better. Either way, I knew my wanderings would not be punishment enough, even though I had been cut off from my people for thousands of years. And I deserved much worse.  
  
I heard soft footsteps approaching the door, disrupting my thoughts. When Elrond pulled it open, I said, “I'll sail.”  


* * * * *

  
  
Walking up the gangplank, knowing there was no returning (unless the Valar decided to exile me permanently), was the hardest thing I had done in years. I couldn't help but go over my likely reaction when we docked and I was recognized: if I was lucky, I'd only be injured. But I couldn't withdraw now-- I had never gone back on my word before, and this was not the time to start. That time had come and gone in the First Age.  
  
Thankfully, the crew paid no attention to me after they had stowed my scant belongings, knowing I was coming. Elrond and I were the only passengers. The main thing this ship transported was cargo. I refrained from asking specifics, and kept out of the way at the bow.  
  
It rained the entire voyage, and we emerged from the Straight Road-- which the sailors had been anticipating because it usually meant sunshine-- into another storm. By the time we docked, I'd noticed there were only a few people about. I looked over at Elrond, who pointed to a horse and tied cart near the quay. After our possessions were loaded onto it, we left, making our way through the port city. Not Alqualondë or Avallónë, but a new city on Valinor itself. It had been there for some time, but its main purpose, according to Elrond, was transport to Middle-earth.  
  
The rain stopped after we passed Tirion. Only then did Elrond explain that Manwë was deliberately controlling the weather to prevent my being noticed. A fission of fear shot down my spine. Did the Valar not want to cause a riot or would they punish me in secret, no one save Elrond and the ship's crew knowing I had ever left Middle-earth? I fought down the urge to run. Where would I go? I certainly wouldn't be safe on my own here.  
  
I took a deep breath, trying to calm myself. I would not arrive at the Máhanaxar hunched over like a coward. I had chosen to return, and I would not hide from the consequences. I refused to shame my family more than I already had. Running, for once, was not an option.

**Author's Note:**

> The story Maglor tells to the little girl is paraphrased from the Appendix to “Quendi and Eldar” in _War of the Jewels_. It is, in fact, explicitly described as an Elvish child’s tale mingled with counting lore.


End file.
